Stitches
by BSparrow
Summary: I knew from the moment I found Jack bleeding to death in that alley that my life would never be the same. I knew he would change everything and complicate my neat little world beyond all reason but I took him in anyway. I could've never dreamed what he would become.
1. Chapter 1

After a long night of dancing half-naked for a bunch of perverts and fending off their roaming hands, I couldn't wait to get home. It was nearly 3 am and I was dead on my feet but that wasn't unusual after a long shift at The Dollhouse. That place could suck the life out of anyone and the trip home after work was never much better.

I knew it wasn't smart for me to walk through the Narrows alone in the darkness but since my apartment was only a couple of blocks away, I always risked it rather than waiting around for a ride. The streets were mercifully empty at that time of morning anyway and the solitude gave me some time to decompress after hours of plastering on a fake smile.

Though it was summer, there was a damp chill in the air that meant fog would be rolling in by sunrise. As a cold breeze picked up, raising goose bumps on my skin, I wrapped my arms around myself and wished I'd remembered to grab my hoodie.

Half a block from my building, an agonized scream split the silence and stopped me in my tracks. The sound had come from the alley just ahead of me and now that I was listening, I could hear the sounds of a struggle.

My first instinct was to turn and run in the opposite direction. The primal part of my brain told me that was the smartest thing to do, the choice that would ensure I lived to see another dirty night in the Narrows. But the human part of my brain urged me to creep forward, right up to the edge of the dark alley. As I peered around the corner, I could just make out the figures moving in the shadows. The wind blowing through the narrow passage carried with it the smell of wet garbage and blood.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw that four people were standing maybe ten or fifteen feet away from me. Two of them were restraining a third, pinning him back against the brick wall, as the fourth paced in front of them. I couldn't see their faces but all the men appeared to be well-dressed except for the one against the wall.

"Did you really think you could get away with stealing from us?" the pacing man asked in a low, accented voice. As he moved, I could see the glint of something silver in his hand. It was a knife, I realized, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. "You must be _fucking crazy_."

The man against the wall spoke, much too low for me to hear, and I saw the guy with the knife lean closer to him. "Hm? What was that?"

In an instant, the man broke free and lunged forward. I gasped as he headbutted the guy with the knife, sending him stumbling back against the opposite wall, groaning in pain.

The man continued to struggle even as the two thugs wrenched his arms sharply and forced him back. I saw him spit what looked to be blood at the feet of the guy with the knife.

"No, I'm _not_ ," he said, louder this time. His voice sounded strange, like he was speaking through gritted teeth.

As the other man straightened up, I heard one of the thugs ask, "You okay, Angelo?"

"I'm fine," the guy with the knife, apparently Angelo, replied calmly. To my surprise, he didn't immediately attack his victim. Instead, he laughed in his face.

"I take it back," he told the man, twirling the gleaming knife around in his hands so it caught the light. "You're not crazy. You're stupid. You thought you were so smart with your little scheme, didn't you? You thought you could get away with it. But now everybody's got you figured out and you've got nothing. You're a fucking _joke_."

I nearly jumped out of my skin as he dove back into the fray, grabbing the man by the hair with one hand and bringing the knife up with the other. The man against the wall let out an unearthly howl of pain and my stomach lurched violently. I couldn't see what Angelo was doing to him but it must've been horrifically painful. And it seemed to go on forever as the goons laughed like a couple of hyenas.

Covering my mouth with trembling fingers, I tried to stop myself from either screaming or vomiting, both of which felt necessary and inevitable. By the time Angelo stepped back to admire his handiwork, his victim was slumped back against the wall, held up only by the men gripping his arms.

"Look at that smile, boys," he said, chuckling. "I think he finally gets it."

Just then, a car passing slowly on the street behind me honked its horn, probably at the stray cat eating from a discarded Cheetos bag in the middle of the road, and three of the men turned to look in my direction. I ducked back around the corner with my heart pounding wildly.

 _Run_ , my brain told me frantically. _Run while you still can. Go home and hide before they cut you to ribbons too_.

But as the street fell silent once more, I heard the pounding of footsteps fading away down the alley. Still trying to catch my breath, I dared to peek back around the corner and saw there was only one figure left. As I watched, he slid down the wall and collapsed onto the wet ground.

I knew I should just leave him there. People in the neighborhood tended to fend for themselves. I hesitated for a moment and then, cursing under my breath, I ducked into the alley.

I approached him slowly and carefully, like one might approach a wild animal. He was hunched over and I could see his thin, bony shoulders trembling under the threadbare black t-shirt he wore. Against my better judgment, I knelt beside him and shifted out of the way to let the dim light from the street lamps reach his face. What I saw there made me feel queasy all over again.

The man was holding his hands out under his mouth and I could see them shaking violently as blood poured through his fingers and pooled in his palms.

"Oh my god," I breathed, throwing caution to the wind as I reached out to touch his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

When he looked up at me, the first thing I noticed was his eyes. They were dark, nearly black, but they were bright with a mixture of fear and pain. The second thing I noticed was the cuts. The guy they called Angelo had sliced through the corners of his mouth, extending them clear across his face in a cruel parody of a wide smile. It was a horrific sight.

The blood was pouring down his cheeks, running down his neck in thick, dark rivers. I was no doctor but I knew that was too much blood for someone to be losing.

"It's going to be okay," I told him, trying to sound reassuring even though I was terrified. "I'm going to, uh, get you to a hospital and-"

My words cut off in a gasp as his blood-soaked hand shot out and grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip that seemed to grind all the little bones together.

" _No_ ," he growled, and another wave of blood spilled over his lips.

"You've got to be kidding!" He glared up at me and I glared right back, trying to pry his fingers away from my arm. "I don't think you realize how bad this is. If you don't let me help you, you're going to sit here and bleed to death."

As I spoke, his grip on my wrist loosened and I saw his eyelids flutter. When his hand slipped down my arm, I caught it in mine and squeezed his fingers hard, hoping to rouse him. It seemed to work; he looked up at me and blinked rapidly as if trying to clear the haze that had settled over him.

After a moment, he squeezed my hand back weakly and my chest ached for him. He looked so vulnerable, I knew I couldn't just leave him there. Then a thought crossed my mind… _George_. As soon as it occurred to me, I knew it was my only option.

"Come on, let me help you up," I told him as I climbed to my feet and offered him my other hand as well. When he just looked at me, I sighed. "I only live half a block away. I know someone who might be able to help you."

His blood-slick fingers slipped through mine as I tugged him upright but I managed to catch him by the wrists and get him onto his feet. He swayed a little and when I wrapped my arm around his waist, he leaned heavily on me.

As I led him out of the shadows and onto the street, I glanced up at him. "What's your name?"

He cut his eyes at me and for a while, I didn't think he was going to answer. But then, reluctantly, painfully, he managed to say, "Jack."

"Jack," I repeated, nodding. Easy enough to remember. "My name's Cat. Cat Greene."

He only grunted in response.

We made it up the front steps without much trouble but by the time we got to the second floor and I unlocked my door, I was supporting almost all of his weight.

Like most cheap places in Gotham, my apartment was small and the bathroom was only a few steps away. I flipped on the overhead light and then helped him over to the sink.

That was when he got his first look at his new face. Gripping the edge of the counter, he went still as he stared at his gory expression. The wounds looked so much worse under the bright lights.

"You see?" I said in a shaky voice. "I told you that you needed to go to the hospital."

He shot me a venomous look and collapsed back against the wall, his chest heaving.

"Just stay right there. I'm going to go get someone to help you," I told him. When his brow furrowed, I added, "Don't worry. He's definitely not a cop."

Despite the time, I didn't think twice about knocking on George Getz's door. Due to the scandalous nature of his line of work, his back alley medical office kept odd hours. He was probably just getting home as well. Sure enough, he was wide awake and fully dressed when he opened the door.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his eyes immediately drifting down. I followed his gaze to find myself absolutely covered in Jack's blood. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I told him. "But I've got a friend who really needs your help. Do you think you can stitch him up?"

He glanced down at the blood again and gave me a hard look before he nodded. Disappearing into his apartment for a moment, he grabbed his beat-up old doctor's bag and then followed me down the hall.

"What happened to this friend of yours?" he asked, his voice stern.

"It's bad, George," I told him shakily as I held my door open for him. "He's in the bathroom."

If possible, Jack looked even worse. He was on the floor, with his eyes closed and his face ashen under all the blood. He barely stirred as George and I crowded into the small room with him.

For the first time since I'd met him, George seemed flustered. He looked back and forth between my face and Jack's several times, a deep furrow appearing between his brows.

"You know this man needs a hospital," he told me in a grave tone. "I'm not sure I can help him."

"Please, George. I tried but he wouldn't go." I hesitated before adding quietly, "I think he might be in some kind of trouble."

"You think," he repeated flatly and then sighed. "Well, then help me get him up. We need to try to get him onto the kitchen counter or something."

Jack was nearly deadweight but between the two of us, we managed to get him to his feet, walk him into the kitchen, and haul him up onto the counter. I ran to get some clean towels and then George began gently dabbing away the blood.

Underneath, the wounds were much worse than I'd thought. They were uneven, jagged, and worst of all, they seemed to go all the way through. There was also a deep, Y-shaped gash on his bottom lip that I hadn't noticed before. I figured it must've happened when he struggled.

I watched George mutter to himself as he laid out his supplies and after that, the next few hours were a blur of pain and blood. It was gruesome work and it seemed to me that it took a long, long time. Outside the window over my sink, I could see the sky lightening as the sun rose over Gotham.

As weak as he was, I expected Jack to pass out once George started but he was awake the whole time. He handled it much better than I would've but I knew it was excruciating. His hands clenched into fists and his feet twisted around in circles, his heels digging into the counter as he fought against the pain to stay still.

At one point, I took his hand, unfurled his fingers, and linked them with my own, offering him the only support I could. Immediately, his eyes popped open, full of fire, and focused on my face. It was unsettling but I forced myself not to look away. I knew he was hurting, scared, and probably traumatized. He squeezed my hand until the pressure was agonizing, taking his pain out on me, but I held fast.

By the time George was finished, Jack's face was a mess of black stitches. It looked like something out of a horror movie. He was practically catatonic as I helped him to the couch while George went back to his apartment to hunt down some pain pills. It took both of us to get him to swallow them but his eyelids were already slipping closed when I followed George out into the hallway.

"The scars are going to be really bad, aren't they?" I asked him quietly and George hummed in agreement.

"Terrible. A plastic surgeon could've probably minimized them but even then…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "I wouldn't be surprised if he has nerve damage."

I walked him back to his apartment, said my goodbyes, and was turning to leave when he stopped me. "Listen, sweetheart, don't take this the wrong way but…how well do you know that man?"

When I gave him a look, he continued, "I know, I know. It's none of my business. Just be careful, okay? I don't know what he did to deserve to have his face carved up like that but it couldn't have been good."

I gaped at him. "I don't care what he did, nobody deserves to be mutilated like that."

"I understand where you're coming from but that?" He jerked his thumb towards my door and, presumably, the man behind it. "That was a message. They cut him deep, with purpose. Somebody either wanted him to bleed to death or to wear those scars for the rest of his life."

I looked away from him as the words I'd heard Angelo say back in the alley echoed through my head. _Did you really think you could get away with stealing from us?_ It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that "us" was some faction of the mob.

"I just want you to take care of yourself, okay?" he said, patting me on the shoulder with his usual pseudo-fatherly concern. "You know where I am if you need me."

"I know," I told him, managing a smile. "Thank you again for all your help. I don't know what I would've done without you."

"Don't mention it." He waved it off. "You're a good girl. Just don't let that goodness get you hurt."

"Alright, _Dad_." We shared a smile at that. "I'll see you later."

When I walked back into the living room, Jack was sleeping. After a quick search of the linen closet, I found a blanket and draped it over him, careful not to wake him.

But I needn't have worried. He didn't stir even as I wiped down the kitchen counter, piled the ruined towels into a garbage bag, and scrubbed the bloody handprints off my bathroom sink. When I was done, I stood in the shower and watched his blood wash off my skin and down the drain.

I checked on him one last time before bed and found he hadn't moved. Standing there in the darkness, I took a moment to study his face. He was younger than I'd originally thought, maybe just a few years older than me. He was also incredibly handsome, or had been before tonight.

His hair was curly and a little shaggy, in need of a good cut where it hung down over his ears. It might've been dirty blonde if it was clean but since it was wet and tinged with blood like every other part of him, it was impossible to tell.

I remembered his eyes being so dark they looked black when he stared at himself in my bathroom mirror. Against his pale face, the effect had been more than a little ghoulish. But under the kitchen light, I'd noticed they were a very deep, very rich brown with flecks of green.

He had wonderful bone structure too – prominent cheekbones, a strong, straight nose, and a sharp jawline. He was tall and much too skinny. I'd felt his ribs digging into me as he leaned on me for support. The boy was desperately in need of a few good meals.

All in all, he didn't look much like a criminal and he certainly didn't look like someone who deserved to have his face so terribly butchered. He looked young and innocent, another victim of the Narrows. Another victim of Gotham.

Sighing and suddenly, terribly exhausted, I headed down the hall and into my bedroom. I felt like I could sleep for a month. But halfway to my bed, George's words ran through my mind.

Thinking again about my handsome, damaged guest, I shuddered as I locked my bedroom door.


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up sore and groggy sometime around noon. As I laid there, blinking up at the ceiling, the reason for my aching muscles and bruised hand began creeping back into my mind and I found myself wondering if he was still around or if he'd slipped away while I was asleep.

As curious as I was about him, I knew my life would be much, much simpler if he was just gone, if he'd just vanished like something out of a bad dream. I didn't know much about Jack but I had the strangest feeling that he was the kind of guy who could really complicate a girl's life. And that was the last thing I needed.

Hauling myself out of bed, I found an old, bleach-stained pair of jogging shorts and pulled them on under the oversized t-shirt I slept in. It wasn't my sexiest look but I wasn't trying to impress anyone. When I opened my bedroom door, I was met first with silence and then the smell of cigarette smoke.

I found him right where I'd left him, slouched back against the couch cushions with his socked feet propped up on my coffee table and a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He was totally still, staring off into space with a blank expression. Even when I walked into his line of sight, he didn't react.

Frowning, I walked a little closer and leaned down, putting my eyes on level with his. "Jack?"

When I said his name, his eyes snapped to mine. At first, it seemed like he didn't recognize me. I watched his gaze move over my sloppy outfit, down my bare legs, and then back up to my face. He blinked those dark eyes and suddenly the recognition was there.

"Are you okay?" I asked him uncertainly. He raised his brows and, with some difficulty, took a drag off his cigarette. "Okay, that was a stupid question. Uh…are you in a lot of pain? I can get you something to take for it."

He watched my lips move with a vague sort of curiosity but didn't seem interested enough to respond to my question. Keeping his eyes on mine, he turned his head and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air beside me.

"Can you speak?" I asked as I started to grow uncomfortable with his scrutiny. His only answer was a half-hearted shrug. "Well, can you _try_?"

His eyes narrowed and he seemed to consider it for a while. After clearing his throat, he grimaced as much as the stitches would allow and, barely moving his lips, muttered a soft, "No."

"There you go," I said, smiling. He didn't smile back but instead leaned around me to stub out his cigarette on my coffee table. "Are you hungry?"

He hesitated for a moment and then gave me a decisive nod. Glancing back at the coffee table, beyond his feet and a couple of cigarette butts, I saw a half-empty bottle of water which told me two things. One, he'd been up snooping around in my kitchen at some point and two, he was able to drink.

"Hope you like soup," I told him, ignoring the feeling of his gaze burning into my back as I walked into the kitchen.

I hummed to myself as I opened a can of tomato soup into a bowl, splashed in a little milk, and slid it into the microwave to get hot. In the meantime, I put a Pop-tart in the toaster for myself. It wasn't exactly a five-course meal but it was better than nothing.

Jack sat back and watched as I walked back into the living room but offered no help as I juggled his bowl, my plate, and a glass of water. _Maybe George has a point_ , I thought, a tad resentfully.

"Be careful. It's hot," I told him, sliding the bowl over in front of him. He looked longingly at my Pop-tart but picked up his spoon as I sat down in the chair to his left. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Already hunched over his bowl, he merely shrugged.

"Okay," I said, mostly to myself. "Are you in some kind of trouble? I mean, are the police going to be looking for you?"

Jack froze but didn't look up. After a moment, he shook his head.

"Are you sure? Because you know, you can tell me. I'm not going to run down to the station and turn you in or anything. I don't trust the cops any more than anyone else in this neighborhood." I winced, watching as he spooned the still-steaming-hot soup into his mouth without so much as flinching. "I just want to be prepared, you know?"

"They're not," he mumbled.

"So, what's the deal?" I asked around a mouthful. "Why did those guys do this to you?"

Staring down into his soup like it held all the answers, he said, "Dunno."

"Jack, come on," I said skeptically. "I heard them saying something about you stealing from them-"

The words were barely off my tongue when his head whipped around and he gave me a look so dark and so _mean_ that I completely lost my train of thought. I gaped at him and he held my eyes, unblinking, until I finally looked away.

"Alright, moving on." Clearing my throat, I set my plate down on the table. Suddenly I wasn't so hungry anymore. "Do you have somewhere to go? A home, I mean?"

I could _feel_ him watching me but I was determined to avoid his eyes, afraid of seeing that darkness in them again. I looked at the table, his twitching hands, anywhere but his face. The silence stretched long between us until I finally looked up to see him shake his head.

"Where have you been staying?"

Using the spoon, he gestured vaguely towards the window and the city beyond it which I took to mean as "wherever I can". At that point, I was 99% sure I couldn't trust him but looking at his too-thin frame and the way he was eagerly downing the soup despite the pain, I decided he was probably telling the truth.

"So, where are you going to stay now?" I asked, though I had a sneaking suspicion I already knew the answer. We both did.

He looked up and then over at me, startled. His brow furrowed as he studied my face and then murmured, "Here?"

His tone was questioning, maybe a little hopeful. I sighed, resigned to my fate.

"Fine," I told him, aware that I was probably making a terrible mistake. "You can stay for a little while as long as you _promise_ you're not some kind of psycho serial killer."

He huffed out a laugh through his nose and, with his finger, drew a "cross" over his heart.

With that settled, I decided it was time to run to the grocery store and stock up.

* * *

I was only gone for an hour but I returned to chaos.

Jack was still on the couch but it was clear he'd been busy while I was gone. Cartoons were blaring on the television and the floor was scattered with my books and DVDs. I could almost picture him standing in front of the shelf in the corner, glancing at each cover before carelessly tossing it over his shoulder.

As I walked further into the apartment, I heard the kitchen faucet running and found the refrigerator door standing wide open. His empty soup bowl was lying in pieces in the sink as if he'd tossed it in from across the room.

Dropping the grocery bags on the counter, I turned to look at him for some sort of explanation but his eyes darted towards me and then quickly back to the cartoons.

"What the hell, Jack?" I asked, stomping over to turn off the television. "This is unacceptable-"

When I turned back around, he was already on his feet and digging through the grocery bags. Marching over to him, I ripped the carton of chocolate pudding cups out of his hands and he frowned at me as much as he could without moving his mouth.

"Listen to me. This is my _home_ ," I told him, my anger overriding the hesitation I'd felt towards him earlier. "You can't stay here if you're going to make a mess and destroy shit. I don't have time for that. Do you understand?"

He stared me down, but I held my ground, lifting my chin to glare back at him. After a few moments of this, he finally huffed out an irritated little sigh and nodded once.

"If it happens again, you're out," I said, finally relenting as he tried to tug the pudding out of my grip. "I mean it."

As Jack started in on his pudding, I started cleaning up his mess. By the time he was done, I was on my hands and knees across the room, sorting through the mess on the floor. As I bent over to retrieve a DVD case from under a shelf, I heard the rasp of a lighter behind me.

"You know, you probably shouldn't be smoking," I told him. When he didn't reply, I glanced back over my shoulder just in time to see him sheepishly lifting his gaze from my ass. "Really, Jack? _Really_?"

He didn't even have the decency to _pretend_ to be ashamed. His eyes crinkled up at the corners and I realized he would be smiling, maybe even laughing, if he could. It was surprisingly charming. Shaking my head, I turned away to hide my own smile.

 _Don't even think about it,_ I told myself. _You're stupid but you're not_ _ **that**_ _stupid._


End file.
